Yep, she’d stepped into a time warp. “I see.” She sighed and hoped she could talk McCaskie, or someone who knew car repairs, into looking at her Benz, despite the apparent importance of the parade. “I’m not from around here.”
“Oh, we figured that one out right away!” the other stylist said with a chuckle.
Scarlett gave her an insincere smile instead of a snappy comment, and turned back to Clarissa. “Is there another garage where someone might look at my car?”
“No, hon, I’m sorry, but Claude McCaskie is about the only one around. He’s got a tow truck, but he’s using it now over at the high school parking lot. He always pulls the holiday princess float, doesn’t he, Venetia?”
“You bet. Every year,” the other stylist answered.
“Maybe I could go over to the school and see if he could take some time off to tow my car.”
“I’ve never known Claude to miss the Christmas parade. He takes real pride in helping out. He used to be Santa, you see, but lost weight once he was diagnosed with sugar diabetes and started eating that glycemic index food.”
No, Scarlett didn’t see, but she needed loyal Claude and his tow truck. “Is the high school very far?” Maybe she could walk over and talk to him.
“Just about half a mile south on the farm-to-market road. But really, hon, I don’t think he’s going to give up his afternoon. He sure enjoys a good parade.”
“I understand, but my car is sitting out there beside the road, and I don’t have a lot of options.”
Clarissa sighed. “Let me get finished with Shawna’s hair and I’ll make a phone call out to the school. I might get lucky and find someone who could talk to Claude.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“Have a seat,” Clarissa said as she finished Shawna’s updo. The girl’s face was too small and thin to pull off that style. She needed something simple, preferably short, with just enough volume to frame her eyes.
Please, God, do not let her near blue, sparkly eye shadow, Scarlett silently prayed.
“If I can’t get my car repaired, is there a motel or hotel where I can get a room?”
“Well, that’s the thing about small towns, hon. They don’t always have a Holiday Inn. The Sweet Dreams Motel closed about the time the first George Bush became president, and no one’s opened another place since then. Mostly, folks stay with relatives or down in Graham.”
“Oh.” That was bad. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“Let me think while I finish up with Shawna.” Clarissa grabbed a can of fine mist spray and applied it liberally to poor Shawna’s old-fashioned, too-mature-for-her updo. Shaking her head at her critical thoughts, Scarlett dug in her backpack for her wallet.
As soon as Clarissa put down the spray, Scarlet handed her her Georgia hairdresser’s license. “I didn’t mention it earlier, but I’m a stylist also. I’m just passing through on my way to California.”
“Why, look at that. So you are.” Clarissa smiled and handed the paper back to Scarlett. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for a job, are you, Sa—?”
“Scarlett. I don’t go by that other name,” she said just above a whisper. “No, I’m only passing through.”
“Well, hon, if you wanted to help with some styling this afternoon, I could trade you a place to stay this weekend. Believe me, Claude McCaskie isn’t going to get your car fixed until Monday at the earliest.”
Scarlett looked around the shop and wondered if she’d be forced to create any atrocious updos on other unsuspecting teens. But if she could get a place to stay, it might be worth it.
“I’d offer you my guest bedroom, but I live out in the country, and since you don’t have a car, that wouldn’t be practical. At the salon, you’d be almost across the street from Claude’s garage. This building had an apartment in the back many years ago, so there’s a full bathroom, and we have a sofa sleeper in the back room. There’s a café and a burger place nearby.”
“Sounds good. Do you have more appointments this afternoon?”
“Hon, we’ve got four more coming in and I’m about dead on my feet. Venetia is probably worn to a nub, too, aren’t you, Venetia? We had a part-time stylist, but she up and moved to Dallas with her boyfriend. We could use some help.”
“If you’ll try to get in touch with Mr. McCaskie, I’ll be glad to help out. If on the off chance he can get my car fixed, I’ll head out later. Either way, I should be able to handle at least two clients.”
“That’s real good news.” Clarissa swept the vinyl cape off the teen. “You’re all finished. I’ll ring you up, Shawna, and then I’ll make the call out to the school.”
Scarlett smiled. “That would be great. Thank you, Clarissa.” She was glad to trade a few shampoos, sets and styles for a place to stay—if she got stuck in Brody’s Crossing for a couple of nights.
Come Monday, though, she was having her car repaired and getting back on the road to L.A.—come hell, high water or Christmas parades.
LATER THAT DAY, Scarlett stood on the front steps of Clarissa’s House of Style and watched the Brody’s Crossing Christmas parade pass by. So far she’d seen little girls in red tights and sequined leotards twirling their batons; cute little cowboys leading saddled pinto ponies; the high school marching band belting out a stirring rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”; and a beautiful vintage Thunderbird with the mayor of Brody’s Crossing, a surprisingly young, pretty blonde who waved like a beauty queen. She’d probably been a holiday princess a few years back, Scarlett theorized as she huddled in her hoodie.
And now, the holiday princess float came into view, pulled by a man in a Santa suit driving the McCaskie’s Service Station tow truck. That must be Claude, former Santa and absent mechanic. Darn him for being so civic minded. Her poor car was dead and Claude didn’t care.
Scarlett shook her head to clear the negative thoughts. The float appeared to be a flatbed trailer of some type wrapped in white paper and fluffy imitation snow. Blue snowflakes and hand-painted candies adorned the sides. Above, the princesses waved and smiled to the crowd lining the street, their fake-fur-trimmed white dresses blowing in the breeze. There was even a hint of sparkly blue eyeshadow.
Scarlett smiled and waved at Ashley Desmond, whose hair she’d worked on this afternoon. She looked wonderful in her loosely twisted curls. Ashley smiled back, and Scarlett hugged her arms around herself, pleased that although she was stranded in middle America, she’d made a small difference today.
At least Ashley appeared age-appropriate, in a style suited for her face and stature. She had her own “look,” which was just about the most important asset a teenage girl could possess. After all, not everyone was the same, inside and out.
Scarlett wished her parents and siblings understood her point of view, but they thought everyone should be satisfied to model their virtues—namely, success, stability and respectability.
Well, she didn’t want to be a banker or a doctor or a lawyer, then marry well, produce two or three children on a timetable, and live in the suburbs. She wanted to see the world, meet interesting individuals and be appreciated for her talent with hair.
As the holiday princess float moved slowly down the street, Scarlett hoped the teenager would pursue her own dreams, wherever they led her. Even if you sometimes landed halfway to where you were going.
ON SUNDAY